Possibilities
by wyoluvr
Summary: Possibilities and butterbeer. A vignette.


Title: Possibilities  
Author: Criss Moody wyoluvr@yahoo.com  
Website: ficbitch.com/hpf  
Date: August 28th, 2002  
Distribution: My site. Otherwise, ask.  
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them. I own a six pack beer and my computer. Do the math.  
Summary: Possibilities and butterbeer.  
Characters: Ron, Hermione, wee bit of Harry.  
Rating: PG  
Feedback: Oh yes, please.  
Notes: Zahra betaed. I, of course, ignored half of what she said. Just a vignette folks, neither rhyme nor rhythm to be found. 

From where Ron sat, his very own mug of butterbeer cradled in his hands, he saw at least three different ways to enter the Three Broomsticks.   
  
Come in by the front door and a fellow would be sure to trip right over the wizard in the drooping purple hat who was nearly falling off his stool. Or if the hazard of the wizard could be avoided, well then, the poor fool'd be sure to run right into a badly placed table, just a few inches too far out from the main seating area.  
  
Easily missed, the side door presented folk with the dilemma of whether to be terribly rude and cut right through the center of the seats, or to scoot along the edges until they could find their own place to sit. And if they were say looking for their mate Jack up at the bar, they'd have a damned hard time getting over. They might find some co-worker they didn't really like or an old girlfriend and they'd have to stop and chat and there went their good time.  
  
The back entrance was bloody fantastic for not being noticed. But think of the things that could happen trying to traipse through the kitchen. Elves, pub staff, misfiring magic, it'd be a regular zoo back there. Someone could get killed just trying to walk from the back door to the kitchen's exit.  
  
A small hand waved in front of him and he started, slopping some butterbeer onto the table.  
  
"Ron, your face'll freeze that way if you're not careful. Why the sour puss?"  
  
Hermione rested her shopping bags under the table and gestured to the nearest waitress for another mug of butterbeer.  
  
"Sour what? This is an honest Wizard Pub, leave your silly Muggle expressions out, if you please."  
  
Her eyebrow arched. She crossed her arms.   
  
Ron groaned.  
  
"I'm kidding, 'mione. I was just, you know, taking the piss. No wobblers, kay?"  
  
"Right. Well, why the sour expression? Are you all right?"  
  
"Nah, I'm fine. It's just, well, don't you ever wonder? What would've happened if we hadn't met Harry right off? If he'd fallen in with Draco and his lot?"  
  
"Oh, Ron, really. The things you fret over." She rolled her eyes. The butterbeer arrived. She took a long sip and delicately licked foam off her upper lip.  
  
"It's not a stupid thing to think about."   
  
"I didn't say it was, did I? But it's not something we can change. It's like?...there was once Muggle president of America who was assassinated. My mum and dad talk about what might have happened in America if he hadn't died. His brother tried to become a leader too but he was killed just like his brother was. So what if those bullets hadn't found their intended home? Would America be less violent? What if Harry decided Draco was probably his best bet? He'd still be Harry, just darker. He wouldn't be our friend. And the world would be a worse place. But that's if. If, if, if gets us nowhere. Right?"  
  
Ron didn't want Hermione to agree with him. He needed her to agree that the thought of a slimy Slytherin version of Harry was a thing of horror. He needed someone else to worry when Harry's brightness got tarnished, when Harry had to be ruthless and vicious to stay alive. A little bit of his shiny wonder should remain. Seemed a shame to lose it.  
  
"Now, what if that president hadn't died, like you said? It's like, what if Seamus Huggleby hadn't smashed up his legs trying the Wronski Feint in Ireland vs. England? Eh? He'd have been around to help Ireland win the Quidditch Cup, that's what."  
  
Hermione muttered something to low for Ron to hear.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said, there are spells to do that you know. If you really wanted to know." Her fingers rubbed away the foam at the top of her glass. "Of course, the power would likely blast you into a different country but you do what you have to do." 

Round hazel eyes glared at Hermione. She responded in kind, knowing better than to worry about Ron's glares. She only worried when he didn't speak, didn't glare, didn't interact.   
  
"You love taking the piss out of my worry, don't you?"  
  
"Yes, quite."

She never let him worry. In one part of his head Ron knew this and marveled that he'd gotten damned lucky. With every other part of head and body he wanted to wipe that sanctimonious smile of her face. Her pretty, calming face. He couldn't even keep up a good inner diatribe at her. Dammit.

  
"A nightmare, a bloody nightmare." Ron never had a nightmare that didn't involve Hermione saving them all. At some point. Yeah, she was usually in a skimpy gown but he was seventeen, what else could be expected?  
  
"What's that? Nightmares?" 

Harry's robes swooshed up as he took the chair next to Ron's. Their thighs brushed together. It felt secure, like links locking together. Just to himself, Ron thought they'd all be pointless gits without each other. He kept this to himself. Most times.  
  
"S'nothing, Harry. What did those chaps want?"

Harry's famous brow wrinkled in a familiar expression of long-suffering patience.

  
"Oh, the usual. Autographs, blahblahQuidditchblahblah, things certainly are getting exciting,blahblahblah. They're not so bad. Thick, but not so bad." Harry shrugged his shoulders. Smiled at Hermione, and they collectively went silent for a moment. Once Harry set his empty mug on the table, Hermione put the cost of their drinks on the table.

  
"Time to meet Ginny at Honeydukes. You did say half-ten, right Ron?" By the time Ron looked up, Hermione and Harry had both gathered up their bags.

Which left Ron as the last one to finish. Typical.  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Slowly, he drew his bag over his shoulder and checked around the table for anything he might have left. Like a brain. Self-respect. Or even a way to avoid all the terrible possible paths in front of them all. Death first, death with, or death after; it all looked like death to Ron. 

"Right then, we're off."

Ron chucked an extra sickle on the table as they exited. Good omens for the road ahead and all that. 

They took the front door out.


End file.
